


Faded Man Alone

by yoursecretbattle



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Community: trope_bingo, Immortality, M/M, Presumed Dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 10:35:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6701419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoursecretbattle/pseuds/yoursecretbattle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the battle with the senior partners, after everyone he knows is dead, Angel shuts himself away in a cabin in the mountains, determined to never become attached to another human. Spike’s got a different idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faded Man Alone

It took a long time to track the old sod down. He’d done a fabulous job of hiding himself away this time, of course it was one of the big pansy’s best skills; alongside fighting and brooding. 

But Spike had eventually found where his grandsire was hiding, and now here he stands, miserable in wet shoes, snow covering every inch of him and exhausted from his trek up the bloody mountain. Through three inches of snow. _Christ, why had he even bothered._

Of course, the big poof had managed to find himself the most remote cabin imaginable. Spike knows there isn’t another person around for miles. 

He pauses and catches his breath at the door, a habit he’s never been able to shake; and then he gathers himself and pushes the door open, not bothering to knock. He knows Angel won’t answer. 

The sight inside was one Spike had expected to see, but was still shocked by nonetheless. It’s almost like only-just-cursed Angel has returned. Spike’s elusive grandsire is seated in the middle of the room, in a large, plush armchair. That and a small table are the only pieces of furniture in the cabin. Angel is scruffy and dirty; Spike doesn’t want to know when the last time he’d showered was. It had taken Spike almost seven years to track Angel down; the older vampire may have been seated within this cabin the entire time, not talking to anyone, not moving, just sketching. Which, by the look of the cabin floor, Angel definitely could have been sketching for seven years. 

Spike moves forward into the cabin, the crush of paper loud under his feet. Spike peers down at the sketches as he moves slowly toward the armchair. They are of all the people Angel had used to know; those closest to him were obviously most frequent, Buffy, Cordelia, Connor. Piles and piles of the three faces stare up at him, like haunting memories. Sketches of Wesley, Gunn and Fred are also present in large quantities. Even the scoobies and Darla and Dru are there. The only face he doesn’t see is his own. 

He pauses, halfway to the armchair, wondering if he’s spent the past seven years of his life searching for someone who doesn’t care an ounce about him. Would it be the same as Dru, would it all be for nothing? _Probably,_ he thinks, _but fuck it. I’m here now._

And then he can’t contain it anymore and he blurts, “Jesus Christ, Angel, this is bad, even for you.” as he gestures at the mess of papers around himself. 

Suddenly, Angel’s cold, dead eyes are fixed upon him; not soulless, Angel’s soul is most definitely still intact, but Spike’s suddenly unsure if Angel’s _mind_ is still intact. 

“Christ on a stick.” He mutters under his breath and steps up closer to the armchair, to get a better look at his lost grandsire. “Angel, how long have you been up here?” he asks, incredulous. 

Angel has yet to take his eyes off of Spike, like he’s trying to bore his way into Spike’s soul with his eyes. He blinks at the question, and then turns his full attention back to the sketch he’s halfway finished. Like Spike isn’t even there. 

“Hey, Angelus!” Spike’s getting mad now, at being ignored, at his grandsire’s childish behaviour and reaches out and grips the older vampire’s chin in his hand, pulling the dead eyes back to look into his. 

The name seems to startle Angel and his brow furrows with confusion, his eyes meeting Spike’s only for a moment before grief seems to slide back in and the gaze slips away, back down the the sketches. 

“William.” The other man whispers to the paper and Spike realises it’s the first word Angel has spoken. “William the Bloody.” He says again and there’s a lost tone to his voice that almost makes Spike reel back, away from the madness that he knows has Angel in it’s clutches. 

_Well, this is new._

Over all the years, all the soul-acquiring and soul-losing, Spike has never once experienced an _insane_ Angel. 

Spike grips the man’s chin tighter, shaking just slightly to get his attention. “Angel. Angel!” 

The lost eyes snap back to him and it’s like Angel suddenly realises he’s there. “Spike?” He asks, like he really isn’t sure. “What are you- What- Oh.” he says, as if he’s just come to some huge revelation, that only he can understand. 

Angel’s eyes start to slide back to the sketch book away again, but Spike is having none of that. He grips the chin, hard again as he barks, “Angel! What’s going on. What’s wrong with you?”

The eyes make a slow track up Spike’s black, t-shirt covered chest, along his throat and finally caress over his face to finally meet his eyes again; unexpectedly though, a gentle hand follows the path the vampire’s eyes tracked out, until Angel has a hand against Spike’s cheek and he’s smiling a half-crazy, half-delighted smile.

Angel breathes out a sigh of relief before he drops the hand and his eyes fall back to his lap. And Spike is about to completely lose it and start pounding into the stupid, bloody ponce, when Angel mutters something that pulls Spike up short. 

“I know you’re not real. I know you can’t be here; but it’s good to see you again, Will.”

Spike reels back with the realisation, _finally,_ of what is happening here, even as Angel continues. 

“It’s been so lonely up here.” He waves a hand out at the sketches, like they just appeared there, like Angel hasn’t been up here for seven years, _sketching._ “I missed you, Will. But it won’t be long now. Soon. Soon it’ll all be over.” 

Right. Spike has had enough of _that._

And so he does the only thing he can think of and right hooks the older man across the face. 

*****

Angel immediately passes out cold; it isn’t like he’s in any position to fight back and as weak as he is, it isn’t surprising the punch knocks him out. 

Spike feels a little guilty; it probably wasn’t completely necessary to knock the old ponce out, but he’d been talking _bollocks_ and Spike wasn’t keen on listening to the crazy-talk any longer. And because he’s Spike, the guilt doesn’t linger for long anyway.   
The next part is difficult. Spike knows what he needs to do, but deciding how to go about it is another matter. 

He checks the fridge first, but of course it’s empty. That would’ve been too helpful. So instead, he throws his hands in the air and stalks back to Angel, pulling the lump of a vampire from the armchair until he’s flat on the ground.

He doesn’t waste any time; he brings his pale wrist to his own mouth, fangs descending automatically and bites down hard, given a single hard suck before jerking it away and pressing the now leaking wounds to Angel’s lax mouth. 

It takes only about a second, for the other vampire to unconsciously respond, exactly the way Spike knew he would, and he starts to suck at the two, deep puncture wounds in Spike’s wrist, gulping down the recycled blood. It’s not as good as fresh, but it’s definitely better than what Angel has in him now, which is probably very little, and it will make do until Spike is ready to brave the cold and the _mountain_ once more to go and retrieve some blood bags. 

_Gee, the things he does._

*****

Spike had left immediately after the ‘feeding’. He didn’t really have time to spare; Angel had taken a lot from him and the longer he left it, the weaker he would become. Besides, he was hoping he could get out, get the blood and be back before ol’ broody could wake up.   
He has no such luck though. 

Angel is sitting up against the armchair leg as he barrels through the door, once more covered in snow and Spike slams himself back against the door and freezes. 

Angel considers him for a moment. “Spike.” he says, flatly, like he isn’t sure which expression he should be displaying. 

“Angel.” Spike says back levely, ready for the outburst. 

“What… ah… What is going on?” 

Angel sounds calm but confused, which can only last so long. 

So Spike beats him to the outburst. “You bloody well tell me! I spend seven years tracking you down, to find you in the middle of a _blizzard,_ on a bleedin’ _mountain_ half starved to death, with _no_ blood in the fridge like you did it on _bloody purpose!_ ” 

And Spike guesses he’s hit the nail on the head because Angel’s eyes, much clearer now than before, glaze over with memory and he tilts his head away. _Guilty._

“Why are you here, Spike?” 

And there’s the broody anger Spike had been waiting for. 

But Spike doesn’t know how to answer that question, so instead he huffs out angrily, pushing himself forcefully away from the door and storms past Angel, into the kitchen. 

He makes a racket preparing two cups of blood, because he’s annoyed and angry and a little scared and the more noise he makes, the less he has to deal with the actual feelings. At least, that’s what he’s telling himself. 

When the blood is finally warm and Spike has dredged up the courage to head back into the main cabin area, it takes only a second for him to realise something has changed. 

Angel is pale again, his head resting back against the armchair edge, his eyes glassy and unfocused and as he looks down, Spike notices the dark red puddle forming around one of Angel’s hands. 

“Ah, _fuck, shit._ ” Spike exclaims as he dumps the cups on the small table and thuds to his knees next to Angel, clenching his hand tightly around the damaged wrist, putting pressure on the wound, hoping that’ll be enough until the rapid vampire healing kicks in and closes the ridiculously large gash.

It takes a minute, but the wound finally closes and Spike drops the arm to the ground. But he gets a grip on the massive shoulder’s immediately after and shakes the dazed vampire, hard. “What the ever-loving _fuck,_ Angel?!” he just barely stops himself from screaming. 

The glazed eyes meet his own and Angel’s undamaged hand comes up to rest on his cheek again, and this is really starting to weird Spike out. 

“Spike.” The other man says this time. “Spike,” Angel smiles goofily and continues, “you came back.” 

And Spike is about to scream at him, scream that of course he came back and would Angel please stop trying to kill himself, because Spike travelled all the way here, after __seven years and it would be really nice to finally get to the real reason Spike came. Maybe.

But then Angel murmurs again and Spike strains to hear. “I- I‘m sorry Spike.” Angel’s head falls back against the chair and Spike thinks that’s it, is about to get up and retrieve the mug, when Angel speaks again. Just as quiet. “I’m sorry I made you fight. I’m sorry you had to die for my _stupid_ ideas. I’m sorry I lost you…” And then Angel’s eyes roll back into his head and he’s silent. 

Spike is a little stunned. He’s still crouched down in front of Angel, hands still gripping the broad shoulders and he just stares at the other man for a while. Angel thought he’d died. That night at Wolfram and Hart; Angel had thought he’d lost them all. And that explains a whole hell of a lot. 

He releases the shoulders gently, and retrieves the cups before coming back to Angel, tipping back the restful face and pouring the now cold liquid down the uncooperative throat. He dumps the other one into the bloody idiot as well. 

*****

Spike keeps Angel unconscious for a few days, until he thinks he’s gotten enough blood into the other vampire for him to get any sense through the thick skull of his grandsire. 

Angel is broody and grumpy when he comes around, but that’s not really much of a clue to his mental state. 

He’s back in the armchair, because it’s the only comfortable surface in the entire cabin and Spike felt it was a little unfair to steal it, seeing as he was the reason Angel was unconscious. Sort of. 

After he’s gotten the heavy sod into the chair though, he thinks he definitely doesn’t owe Angel this much. He no bleedin’ nursemaid. But he doesn’t leave though. Not on the first day, or the second or the third, even though he’s constantly feeding the unconscious git and entertaining himself to pass the time, and sleeping on hard wooden floor; not once is he tempted to leave. And he tries to stay away from analysing _that_ at all. 

He’s emerging from the kitchen, two mugs of warm blood in hand, once again when he realises Angel is awake again, looking much more alert this time. 

His brow furrows in wary confusion as soon as he spots Spike and then he looks down at himself as though he knows something is very wrong. 

And Spikes never been any good at tact. 

“You tried to starve yourself, you stupid git. I got here four days ago to find you half-dead and half-delusional and trying to end it all.” He explains. That pretty much sums it up. 

And yet, Angel looks just as confused and just as concerned. 

_Oh right._

“You’re not real.” Angel says, much more clearly now, but it’s like he’s trying to convince himself of a fact that’s suddenly not so factual anymore. 

Spike quirks an eyebrow at the older man and steps up close, shoving one of the mugs into Angel’s hand and grabbing up his free wrist, bringing Angel’s hand up to his chest and pressing the palm to his breastplate. “Well, actually…” Is all he says, allowing Angel for him to _feel_ for himself that Spike is really real. 

“Wha-” Angel breathes out and gapes. “I didn’t- I was sure. I was sure you died. I saw you burst into flames!” 

Spike just shrugs and lets go of the man’s wrist, taking a sip of the thick liquid from his mug. “Guess they were trying to trick you, hey.” He says calmly, referring to the Senior partner’s. 

Angel just nods, eyes distant like he’s trying to put together a puzzle in his mind. Spike leaves him to it for a minute. 

But then he looks around at all the faces still scattered over the floor, the people Angel _really_ missed, the faces he’s been sleeping on for the past three days and the rage is immediately back. It seems like it’s always this way with him and Angel. Too many emotions. 

He kicks out at the ground and a stack of papers go flying through the air. 

“So, once again, William the Bloody idiot has chased after someone who couldn’t give two fucks about him.” Spike tries to make his voice sound lighthearted and jovial, but it mostly comes out as pitiful. “Even after everything at the end.”

Angel swallows sharply around a sip of the blood and stares down into his lap. 

He’s silent for so long Spike thinks he has no decent excuse to air and is therefore saying nothing at all. Confirmation then. Spike should just leave the bloody ponce to starve himself. But Spike never could shut up. 

“You didn’t miss me at all. You thought I’d _died_ and not once,” he waves a hand down to the ground in anger, “Not once did you think of my face. Just good old Spike, dying for ol’ granddaddy and not so much as a single sketch.” 

He knows he sounds pathetic but what has he got left to lose, really. All the dignity he had left was stripped away climbing up this _fucking_ snow covered mountain. There’s nothing left for him out there. Just like there’s nothing left for Angel. They’ve only got each other left and Angel didn’t think of him once in seven years. 

He’s about to forget the entire ordeal and just _leave_ , when Angel finally speaks, so soft it’s barely audible. 

“You… you were the last. I couldn’t… I didn’t want to believe you were gone too. I didn’t want to add you to the pile of the dead.” He throws a hand out at the floor, gesturing at the sketches of his past friends and family. 

Instantly the anger is gone. Now he’s just crushed. “Buffy. Conner-” He can’t even say it. _How did he not know?_

But Angel’s shaking his head, still staring at his lap. “It’s only a matter of time. I can’t keep bringing the darkness into their lives. They’re lost to me.” 

This is nothing new, the dejected, I-have-to-protect-everyone-I-love-by-leaving, Angel. Spike has experienced this Angel more than a few times, but this time he actually gets it. 

But still, In usual Spike fashion he tries to comfort Angel with dry humour. “You could always just turn ‘em, like you did me and Dru, be one big happy family for the rest of eternity.” He smirks at his own joke, but in usual _Angel_ fashion, the other man takes him seriously and frowns as hard as he can in Spikes general direction. 

“I would never want anyone to suffer this fate.” He says somberly. And Spike really wants to point out that at one time, Angel wanted Spike to suffer in this fate and now here they both were, suffering; but that’s a little too cruel, even for him and so he bites it back. 

So he tries another tactic. And it’s one he hasn’t done in a while, something he’s not very good at; sincerity. 

“I- ah… I’m sorry, Angel.” He finally manages to force, quietly past his lips, but he can’t bring himself to meet the ponce’s eyes, so instead he stares down at his shoes, at all the faces that are not his. Not even once. 

_What the hell did he even come here for?_

_Time to face the truth, old Spikey boy._

Seeing the truth, having the truth thrust into his face like this hurts, to know that Angel didn’t miss him at all, that of all the people Angel knows, Spike is one of those he’s known the longest and known the most as well and yet, in the end, Angel didn’t once wish he was here. 

He cackles self-deprecatingly and kicks out at the papers again. _Ha, he’s sorry._ Well he _is_ sorry, he’s sorry Angel can’t see the opportunity right in front of him, but he’s not enough of a sucker to stick around when he’s clearly not wanted here. 

“Well. I’ll just be going then.” he announces loudly, like they’ve just been sitting down for tea in the middle of suburbia and it’s about time he get back home. Or something. 

And, yes, he’s juvenile, he knows this, it’s not a new problem, but he sways his feet widely as he heads to the door, kicking up the sketches as he goes, disturbing them from their settled position and crumpling faces in his path. It’s spiteful and yet there’s no one here who cares but him. And it doesn’t make him feel better. 

“Spike.” 

Angel’s voice stops him inches from the door. He doesn’t turn around though, just cocks his head down and to the side. _I’m listening._

“Why did you come here?”

It’s not what Spike wanted to hear and the white, hot anger spears through him and he flings himself away from the door, ready to hit something. _Anything._

“What am I- What am I doing here?! Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, Angel. Everybody at that battle _died,_ Angel. Do you remember that?!” He practically screeching at the other man, arms flying wildly as he paces the room, unable to keep still. “The five of us going up against the big-bad? But _everybody died._ And then you and I were the only ones left and I thought- I thought…” The anger just sort of melts away with the last sentence, his arms dropping and the restlessness in his feet disappears, but he can’t force the words past his throat. He looks desperately up at Angel. 

“You thought- you want to.... Spike what do you want from me?” And Angel’s always done clueless so well. Even before the soul. 

_Fuck he’s going to make me say it._

He grinds his teeth for a minute before he forces himself to open his mouth and pushes the words out, kicking and screaming. “I thought- I thought, seeing as we’re both undead and once upon a time, we had a- ah… a thing, and we both ‘walk in the darkness’, that maybe we could stick together. For a while. Or something.” 

And angel just blinks at him, eyes assessing.

Spike throws his hands up over his head again, frustrated and embarrassed and he turns to leave again. “Right, fuck it. I only spent seven years of my undead life searching for you, but of course you’re just a stupid ponce, why would I even _want_ to spend the rest of my bleedin’ time with you…” 

The words are just streaming out of his mouth in his frustration now, he’s not really even sure what he’s saying, it doesn’t really matter now because he’s leaving and he’s at the door when Angel speaks. Again. 

“Seven years?” The voice is dumbfounded. “Spike, you looked for me for _seven years?”_

Spike leans against the door and nods his head, but doesn’t turn around. He’s leaving. “You always were a hard son-of-a-bitch to find.” he mutters. 

It seems as though the rest of Spikes babble is sinking into Angel’s mind because he mutters, “You looked for me… You want to… spend the rest of-” 

Angel has as much trouble getting the words out as Spike did. 

But Spike still doesn’t move. _He’s leaving._ And yet, he’s not leaving. He’s just stuck, leaning against the door, listening to Angel’s lost, desperate tone. 

“Spike, I- I had no idea. I thought- I thought you were gone. I thought everyone was gone.” 

_Yeah, and he missed everyone but me._

“Spike. Please.” 

The tone is pleading now, and it’s been a long, long time since Spike has heard that tone roll off Angel’s tongue and he can’t help but turn around and face his grandsire. 

But Angel isn’t looking at him. He’s looking at the stupid sketchbook, flipping through pages and running his fingers down the pages. Caressing the lines he’s drawn there. _It’s creepy._

“I thought you were dead.” 

Angel’s voice is so quiet Spike has to strain to hear it, and that makes Spike think that Angel isn’t talking to him at all. He’s talking to the soddin’ sketch. 

“I thought I’d lost you, Spike. But I- I never forgot.” 

And there’s something different about Angel now, something curious about the sketches he’s staring at lovingly and Spike has to step closer, and again to get a better look. 

“Your face is so easy to draw,” Angel mutters and Spike is close enough now, to see sketch after sketch of his _own face._ “It’s like it’s branded in here.” Angel points a finger to his temple. “I can’t get it out. But it’s the only one I couldn’t let go of.” He waves a hand at the piles of sketches on the floor and Spike can’t believe his ears. “I didn’t want to accept that you were gone. For seven years I made myself believe that you’d somehow survived, I kept you from the pile, but it was too much, too long, I couldn’t deny what I had seen any longer. You’d died and I had to give in.” 

And Spike guesses that explains the way he’d found Angel. _Gee, they have bloody good timing._

Spike takes another step closer and drops down to his knees in front of Angel, peering up at his grandsire, hands on Angel’s knees. 

“You’re a stupid, bloody ponce. Why didn’t you look for me!?”

“Spike.” Angel says it like the explanation is obvious and Spike is just an idiot for not knowing. “I saw you _die_. Keeping the hope in my head, here alone was hard enough. If I’d gone out there, and seen all those people, living their lives, the reality of what I’d lost would’ve been too much and I would’ve walked into the next sunrise.” 

“Angel.” Spike says the name the same way Angel said his own. But he's interrupted from chewing the other vampire out, when Angel slides off the armchair and into Spike’s space.

Spike tries to jerk backwards, give the bleedin’ sod room to move, but Angel grips his arm and _pulls him closer,_ and Spike is so confused, until Angel's lips crash into his own and suddenly Spike realises Angel is _kissing_ him. 

And then Angel’s tongue is probing into his mouth, caressing his own and Spike is definitely not pulling back now. After all, Spike may have been secretly hoping for this as a side bonus to finding Angel. If he has to put up with the bloody sod and his bleedin’ heart act for the rest of time, the least he can get out of it is frequent and mutual orgasms. 

It’s then that Angel moves a hand to a place that has Spike groaning loudly and then his brain finally shuts off. Time to enjoy himself.


End file.
